


Something Warm

by ava_jamison



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Superman (Comics), Superman - All Media Types, Superman/Batman (Comics), World's Finest (Comics)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-19
Updated: 2009-05-19
Packaged: 2017-11-13 07:22:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/500937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ava_jamison/pseuds/ava_jamison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce gets hit with something while out on patrol. Superman is happy to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Warm

In his dream, he’s already home. It’s bright, warm. Too bright and warm for the cave. But the shimmering glow bathes him in relief, feels good pouring over his aching body. As he slips into unconsciousness, it makes sense. Warm and comforting. Sweet like sunshine.

The agony in his leg wakes him, brings him swimming up to reality. To the darkness, the rain, and the pain coursing through his body. Robin. His first conscious thought is of Robin. But he doesn’t need to worry. Robin’s gone away. Batman worked alone again tonight.

His brain focuses, analyzes and catalogs the pain. Not the dull ache of the wet cold seeping into his tired body. Not the familiar throb of his collarbone, ever-present since he broke it the last time or the sharp twinge of the rib he cracked in April. It’s a new, piercing pain, in his right thigh. He doesn’t know what they hit him with but it hurts like hell and the wound went deep. He’s in a dark alley in the worst part of the warehouse district and he’s bleeding out all over the pavement.

He presses one hand to the injury, uses his other to try to gain a hold on the wet brick of the wall behind him. It’s slippery but he finally pushes himself to his feet, assesses. He took out the goons who were firing at him, and they’re knocked out a few yards away. Leaning against the slick wall, he tourniquets his thigh before limping over to them. Then it’s a matter of kneeling at each thug, applying zip strips, shaking them down. He grabs guns, a couple of knives and some kind of grenade they were lobbing and staggers the two blocks to the Batmobile’s hidden location. Slumps inside the car. He’s disoriented, his reflexes are slow and he’s lost too much blood. He radios Gotham PD, reports the perps’ location and rests his forehead on the steering wheel, just for a moment, before slipping back into unconsciousness.

It must be the blood loss, because he’s had this dream before, but every other time he’s been awake. Awake and alone, tossing and turning in his big empty bed in his big empty house. Fitful and wanting.

Then, just like now, he’s in bad shape from a bad night. Cold and hurting, like so many other patrols. He manages to get to the car, manages to get the car home. Drags himself out of the Batmobile, takes one shaky step forward and almost falls to the cold floor of the cave.

But someone’s there, and catches him. He’s caught around his shoulders and held up by strong arms. Warm, powerful arms, heat radiating through the white cotton of a dress shirt that started out starched and pressed and ended up wrinkled from a day’s work at the Planet.

“Batman,” Clark says, breathing coffee breath against his face, “What happened?”

“What,” he grits out from between clenched teeth, “does it look like?” He tries to shrug off Clark’s grip, stand on his own. But he stumbles, and Clark catches him again, hauls him up and Batman braces his aching body against the dense wall of heated muscle. “How’d you get in here,” he manages to say, but his speech, just like his limbs and brain, is slow and clumsy.

“Alfred let me come down and—,” Clark says, using his free hand to push his glasses up on his nose as he looks across the expanse of dark cave between the two of them and the medical facility, gauging the distance. “Come on.” He lifts Bruce effortlessly and Batman is enfolded in Clark’s thickly-corded arms, pressed against the solid, radiant pectorals of Clark’s chest. Bruce can smell Clark’s aftershave over the coppery tang of his own blood.

”I don’t need to be carried,” Batman says, but he’s too weak to put up more than a token struggle. “Put me down.”

“I am,” Clark says, as lowers him to the metal exam table, letting his legs hang over the edge. The table’s cold but it’s warm with Clark there, trying not to look worried, while he scans down his body with nothing but worry and care and concern. “Your femoral,” Clark says.

“I know,” Batman says, sharp and rude.

Clark ignores him. The wound is high on the inside of his right thigh and Clark, in perfect emergency first-aid, puts his hand to Batman’s groin crease, pressing his flat smooth palm so hard, so firm and strong. Clark smiles at him and tries to make lame little jokes, but he keeps getting the punch line wrong because he’s so worried. About him.

In the Batmobile, the radio crackles, picking up chatter on the police line: the cops are picking up the thugs he trussed. Batman lifts his muzzy head from the steering wheel. With numb fingers, clumsy from the cold, he buckles himself in and sets the autopilot for the cave. By the time the car zooms out of the warehouse district, he’s back in his mind’s eye.

“Batman,” Clark says, and surely his voice would hold that much tenderness for anyone he wanted to help, “I need to apply direct pressure. Got to get these layers out of the way.” The hand on his wound, pressed hard against his pelvis, doesn’t move, but his other hand reaches for Batman’s tights, before Clark realizes the belt has to go first. He feels for and finds the hasp and releases the utility belt’s closure. “Easy, Batman,” he says, arm around him, under his shoulders, pulling him up enough to grab the belt from behind his back. Clark lays him back down again and starts on the legs of his suit. Batman, for once, is too weak to even help. To protest or push Clark’s hands away and do it himself.

Grabbing a blade from the instrument tray, Clark nudges Bruce’s legs apart with his knee, so that he’s able to stand between them. He slices at Batman’s uniform, high on his thigh, and cuts away at the tights, slashing half a dozen times with the knife. His fingers are hesitant at first, then grow more assured. They stay gentle. Clark’s breathing changes a little by now. His face has the slightest flush to it as he carefully peels the fabric from Bruce’s hips, then yanks the tights further. He gets them down to the knee on one side, ankle on the other. “Sorry, but I need to get this off, too,” Clark says, his voice apologetic. The blade is cool on his bare skin as Clark slides it under his jockstrap, cutting it away. And suddenly, Clark is looking down at him. At all of him, Clark’s heated, surprisingly soft hand still pressed firmly to Bruce’s inner thigh.

At Kanigher and Sprang, the Batmobile splashes through a deep patch of storm water. The car hydroplanes, fishtailing as it corrects itself, and Batman is jostled into semi-consciousness for a moment or two, before sliding back into oblivion.

“Your pulse is... a little slow," Clark says, looking down at the hand on his wound and his cock, which is starting to respond to the warm hand beside it. Clark clears his throat. Looks up at Batman’s face. “You’re shivering. Are you cold?”

“Not with you. You’re like…”

“Shh. You shouldn’t talk. You’ve lost a lot of blood, B—”

“An inferno.” And it’s true. He can feel his lips trembling, but his legs are basking, Clark’s heat radiating between them like summer sun. Warming his bared legs and his naked groin and filling them with penetrating, fluid heat.

Clark’s eyes crinkle fondly. “You may be going into shock, Bruce. Where are the blankets?” Keeping his hand in place, he starts to step to the side of the table to find one.

“No, don’t,” Batman says, and his voice sounds strange to his own ears. “You’re warm. Stay close.”

“Alright, but—” Clark bites his lip, worried. “It’s still bleeding too much. I need to cauterize the wound. It’s going to hurt. Do you want something?” He looks around, squinting at the med tray, the equipment, the drawers and cabinets. “Pain killer?”

“Just do it,” Batman grinds out through clenched teeth.

“Should've known.”

He lifts his palm from Batman’s thigh and wipes Bruce’s blood on his cheap tweed trousers, then firmly pins his bare hip, holding him still. Behind thick-rimmed glasses, he focuses bright blue eyes on the place where Batman is hurting, makes it hurt more. An exquisite, fiery burn that shoots into him and through him. Makes him cry out, just once, sharp and surprised as the air fills with the smell of burning ozone and his cock fills with a surge of humiliating need.

Clark has to see it, has to see the way his body betrays him, but when the bleeding stops, he reaches for a bandage, winds gauze around his thigh, tapes the gauze in place. And just stands there, looking at his face, past the cowl and the lenses… to see Bruce’s eyes. He’s smiling, and it’s a gentle, secret, soft smile.

“I think about it,” Clark says, bringing his large, powerful hand to touch Batman’s cheek, the small patch of skin bared by the cowl.

Bruce can’t help himself. He turns into the touch, rubs the side of his face against the warmth.

“Your face is cold. Where's a blanket?”

”No,” Bruce says, and it’s barely a whisper. “Just you.” He’s not able to say it louder. “Please…”

He tries to sit up, but Clark pushes him back against the table, his hand on Batman’s chest, right at the bat over his heart. And follows him down. Bruce tries to resist, be resolute, but it’s too strong to deny, and he can’t suppress the small, too-high sound that escapes from his throat, or the tiniest surge of his body upwards towards warmth, as his shivering mouth meets Clark’s.

Clark’s kiss scorches, searing his lips in a burning, bruising crush that he’ll still feel tomorrow, maybe always. Stretching up, Bruce palms the muscles of Clark’s back through white cotton, feels them tense and release as he reaches for Bruce, pulls him closer. Into his arms. Clark devours him, ravenous but gentle and he can’t believe how important it is, how overwhelming. Just to have Clark’s mouth against his. Just this touch, the weight of his warm heavy body on his own. Clark kisses him so deeply he can’t breathe for moments at a time, and when he can, he’s sharing Clark’s breath, sweet and tasting of Alfred’s coffee. Clark’s tongue in his mouth is inconceivable, more wonderful than he’d ever imagined, hot and thick and demanding as he licks, tasting Bruce, his mouth and hands growing more passionate, more insistent.

“Batman,” Clark whispers, feverish lips finding the edge of his ear, even through the cowl. “Please.”

He gasps as Clark’s hand skims down his body, over his side and flank. Then a more intimate touch, and Clark steals the startled gasp from his mouth.

“Bruce.”

His breath hitches, and he knows Clark can see the fear in his eyes. Fear, not of the act, but of the repercussions. Fear of the longing and so much need that he can’t even… can’t even think. Clark, on top of him, the heavy weight against him and surrounding him and Clark wants this, his large sex pressing hard against Bruce.

“Bruce,” Clark says, “Batman. I don’t know what to call you right now.” He grins, shakes his head, smiling at himself.

Clark runs a hand along his aching, hard length and his entire body responds for him, bucking in Clark’s arms. He buries a hand in Clark’s silky black hair, treasures the density of Clark’s thick, corded neck filling the palm of his hand.

Clark humps against him, Clark’s erection and the wool of his trousers scraping against his bare loins, the tender skin of his inner thighs, scratching against his naked cock, and Bruce hisses at the feel.

“Mm. You like that, don’t you?” Clark smiles into his kiss, but it’s a new kind of smile, and Bruce has… Bruce has never seen it before. It’s tinged with… desire. Desire and the tiniest touch of a leer, all for him. Clark reaches between them and jacks him, once, teasing, and this time he can’t hold back the high-pitched keen that escapes from his throat, unbidden.

“Yes, Bruce.” Clark says. “Yes, baby.”

He’d protest the endearment, but he doesn’t trust his voice right now, and then Clark’s kissing the breath from him again anyway. His lips are numb and starting to sting and he still wants more.

By Fourteenth Street and Gardner, the rain has turned to sleet, and Batman barely stirs as the Batmobile automatically adjusts, powering on defrosters as the car rockets past the long-abandoned homes that now house crack dens at the edge of Robinson Park. Glides almost silently through the cold, dark city.

“Bruce,” Clark whispers against his cheek, rubbing his nose against the side of his cowl, breathing him in. Him. His scent, musky with leather and Kevlar and sweat and sex. “I know it’s your first time. Like this.”

Beneath him, Bruce tenses, clutching Clark’s shoulder. Freezes. “I didn’t want any other man,” he tries to say through clenched teeth.

“Shh,” Clark says. “Let me, Bruce. I’ll be so gentle. So careful. I want to be the one. Please.” He licks along the bare skin of Batman’s jaw. “I’ve wanted to for so long.” He strokes a hand down to Bruce’s thigh, petting.

Bruce feels his body tremble at the touch. “Clark,” he says, and it’s all that he _can_ say.

Clark nods into his throat, where he’s biting through the leather. “I fantasize about you,” he whispers.

“Tell me,” Bruce grinds out before he can stop himself.

“Different ways,” Clark says, smiling as he runs a finger over the line where Batman’s face meets the cowl, then over his lips. Bruce wants to take it in his mouth, suck it. Bite it. He doesn’t let himself.

“The satellite.”

Bruce nods, unable to speak.

“Against one of the windows. Taking you from behind, both of us looking out at the universe.”

“Oh god,” Bruce says, feeling, even through the Batsuit and Clark’s shirt, his heart beat wildly against the broad, muscular chest. “Clark, I’ve never…” he stops. Can’t say it, even to him.

“I’ll be so careful, Bruce. I won’t hurt you.” Clark pulls back to look down at him, really see him, stroking his face. He runs his thumb over Bruce’s lower lip, over and over until Bruce can’t help but open his mouth and welcome the thick, hot thumb inside. He tongues it, bites.

“Please, Bruce.” Clark lets him suck for a minute, then pulls out. Tilts Bruce’s chin up and kisses him. One perfect, incredible kiss. Then he stands, pushes away from the exam table and Bruce is cold and bereft at the loss. But Clark’s still there, still with him, just falling to his knees at the end of the table. Bruce knows that if Clark takes him in his mouth he’ll shoot like a horny teenager, and he’ll die of the shame. But Clark just coaxes his flanks further apart to put his tongue in his ass and it feels so good he has to cry out at the hot—wet—strong tongue swirling, circling, dipping it. Hot and wet and obscene.

He looks down to see the top of Clark’s head and his glossy black hair, his dick drooling, snail trails of his own come on the belly of his Batsuit. Clark’s kneeling at the foot of the exam table, holding his legs apart, pushing them up so they might as well be in stirrups. Fucking him with his tongue. Pointed little stabs until he’s writhing. Whimpering again and again until it’s just one long continuous soft wail and all of his senses are on overload. He tries to stop himself, to think, but it’s too late. He’s lost now.

Clark stands. Unbuckles his belt. Opens his fly. His sex is imposing, magnificent. He’s a magnificent pagan alien beast poised above him. Drinking Bruce in. Bruce is shameless and ashamed both, his tights in shreds, his entire body and even the air around him quivering with lust and wanton need.

Clark slicks his fingers and slides one in and out. Bruce feels his eyes roll back in his head at the touch. Cries out ‘Oh!’ when Clark adds another, stretching him.

“Shh, Bruce. Got to make room for me.”

“I can’t,” he manages to breathe out. “We can’t.”

But Clark is too strong and wants him too much. Wants this too much. Bruce is afraid, helpless, shaking in his arms. Clark leans in to kiss him. Keeps two fingers inside him and brushes his other hand against Bruce’s lips, saying, “Shh, Batman. Yes, we can,” before moving the hand lower again, warm on the back of his thigh, so careful of his injury yet still relentless, pushing his knees up toward his stomach and slowly, agonizingly slowly, working in and out. Even his fingers are huge and Bruce doesn’t know how he’s going to be able to take Clark, the man.

Then he slips his fingers out and Bruce aches at the emptiness, feeling his face flush at the shame of the desire. He wants Clark inside of him. “Please,” he’s just barely able to say, and his voice is embarrassingly breathy with need.

“Yes,” Clark says, and presses his huge, beautiful cock to Bruce’s entrance. He’s massive, impossible. He can’t take it, but Clark soothes him. He cries out and Clark is there, petting him, whispering and his next cry is lost in Clark’s mouth. Clark pushes in and his ass is filled with Clark, spreading him wide, spearing his body, impaling him on the heat of his massive, glorious dick. Clark quiets him, gentles him, rubs the back of his thigh with a thumb moving tenderly in a soothing circle. When Clark finally feels Bruce relax around him, he sinks in, and he’s really in, and for one perfect moment he lets Batman feel all of his weight on him, his heavy, smoldering body covering him. Clark sighs, face so beautiful and aroused, his hot filthy mouth whispering filthy things about possession and need and how good it feels to be buried inside Batman. How hot it makes him to have Bruce’s legs up over his shoulders. With slow, deep strokes, Clark takes him, owning him. Marking him. Clark sees right through, Bruce knows, right through the cowl and the lenses and sees everything he is. Watches his eyes go wide for a moment, lost in him. Then Clark’s licking into his mouth again, biting at his lips, his jaw.

“Please,” Batman says, and he’s ashamed to say it again and again, but he needs…

Clark knows what he needs, and he wraps his hand around his painfully hard erection, fisting his dick. Clark is relentless, indefatigable. Needy and pushy and wants this, wants him, badly. He wants Bruce so much that he’s imagined this too, and Bruce lets the realization wash over him with his pleasure at the thought and the feel of Clark’s warm hand, urging him toward completion, driving him harder and harder as he fills him and takes him and makes him his. It’s searing and perfect and he comes, spurts, jets all over his belly. All over Clark's hand and the bat on his chest.

Clark smiles dreamily down at him and fucks him lazily, slow and deep. Bruce has come and it’s too much, too much stimulation and he doesn’t think he can take it, but Clark is unstoppable, unrelenting.

He doesn’t want to beg, so he bites his lip to keep from crying out, tenses his muscles to keep from thrashing in Clark’s arms. Clark just smiles down at him, benevolent, beatific even--but holding his hips hard enough to bruise, forcing him to take the pleasure, the push.

He skims his hand over Bruce’s suit to the bat over his heart, drags two fingers through the mess on his chest, through his come. Scoops it up and brings sloppy fingers to his mouth, lapping at his seed, before leaning down to tongue Batman’s Kevlar. “Clark,” Bruce says, somewhere between a prayer and a curse. The angle is new and he’s being pushed over the top again by the pressure, the pleasure, the pain.

Clark pushes up his glasses and grins at him like he knows what he’s thinking, like he can see inside his soul. “Deep breath, Bruce,” he says, and Bruce tries to make sense of the words but Clark’s already pulling out, then lifting him like he weighs less than nothing, and turning him over. “Get on all fours, Batman,” he purrs in his ear. He pushes the cape out of his way and climbs up on the table behind him, looming, large and solid. Lines himself up again and drives inside him, hard, his hands rucking up the Batsuit to scrabble at his naked chest. Pounds into him over and over, then finally pulls him up, pulls them both up until Batman’s sitting on Clark’s lap, strong arms wrapped around him. Holding him. His head lolls back on Clark’s shoulder as Clark comes, telling him he loves him. Makes him say it back. “Tell me you love it, Bruce. Tell me you love me.”

“I do,” he says, his voice a tortured hiss as he comes again.

In the Batmobile, skidding toward the entrance to the cave, Batman climaxes, right in his jock. He stills, shudders in his dream, as Clark pours himself into him, hot and sweet. Bruce’s head is on Clark’s shoulder, his face buried in the crook of Clark’s neck. He can smell Clark’s aftershave and Clark’s come, dripping out of him now and running down his thighs. He breathes in the scent of him.

The Batmobile shrieks to a stop inside the cave. Batman stirs as it does, waking, and he doesn’t smell aftershave. Just blood and the reek of his own shame, filling the car. Damn his body and its betrayal. His reactions are dull and his fingers are clumsy as he powers down the car and opens the clasp on his seatbelt. Slowly he pushes open the car door, and then he… freezes. There’s someone in the Batcave. He’s got company tonight. It’s Clark, dressed in civvies. Holding a cup of Alfred’s coffee. Smiling at him like sunshine.  



End file.
